The Final Fabergé (50 page)

“Don't blame me that you can't control Galina,” Trivimi roared back. “She went to eat.”

“I pay her for a job. I pay you to make sure she does it.”

“You don't need Galina to help you look at fifteen automobiles and sign a contract. Is that her job?”

“Make a copy of the instructions and put it where she will see it. Tell her to find a taxi, or whatever gets her there.”

Trivimi proceeded calmly to check the papers in his briefcase. Then he tucked it under his arm and went to the door and opened it. He said, “I don't have to leave a message for Galina. She knows where to find us.”

Mike put Brighton Beach and an assortment of memories behind him and drove through the downpour to New Jersey by way of the Verrazano and Goethals bridges. He tuned in to a weather forecast and learned the rain would end before the rush hour traffic, but all motorists were admonished to use extreme caution and be prepared for flooding in the usual low-lying sections of the city and suburbs. The announcer intoned the time: 3:19. Mike was on the Turnpike, south of Newark
Airport. He would get off at the airport exit. From the toll booth it would be five minutes to the Doremus Avenue gate. Beyond the gate was the Field. He agreed to meet Oxby and Tobias at quarter to four. The traffic was getting thicker and moving more slowly. He figured he would just make it.

Tobias turned onto Doremus Avenue. Several hundred feet ahead was the gate and the guard station nestled against the fence. He parked beside a year-old Jeep Cherokee with Ohio plates. The driver, a twenty-two-year-old redhead with a gold earring and T-shirt with the Budweiser logo printed front and back, was trying to detach a Harley-Davidson motorcycle from the Jeep's tow bar before he was drenched to the skin. The rain had intensified and the wind had picked up. The guard, covered with an orange slicker, came from his shed, opened the door to the Jeep, and tossed a gate pass and an envelope on the shelf above the dashboard. He hurried back to the shed.

Two more cars arrived. One parked ten feet from Tobias's car, the other stopped abreast of the Jeep. The drivers, one with an umbrella, the other running, went to the guard's shed. A few minutes later, the one with the umbrella returned to his car and drove off. The other got back into his car and waited for a gate pass.

The young driver pushed the motorcycle close to the shed and let it rest against its kick stand. Then he got into the Jeep and drove through the gate, where he parked in front of a low, one-floor, wooden building. He disappeared inside. This was the final checkpoint before driving onto the Field. License and title would be confirmed, along with proof that shipping charges and fees had been paid. When the driver received his final clearance, a second gate would be opened and he could drive onto the Field and put the vehicle in its assigned space. This done, he could return to his motorcycle and begin his drive back to Ohio. In view of the weather, he might wait out the rain.

Tobias was familiar with the procedure and explained it to an always curious Oxby. As the Jeep Cherokee disappeared, Mike Carson pulled in next to them.

“Wait here,” Mike said. “I'll get our gate passes.” It took several minutes, and when he returned he got into the back seat of Tobias's car. He handed a pass to Tobias.

“I've got one for Deryabin.” He looked squarely at Oxby. “Who's going to wait for him? Not me.”

“Alex will,” Oxby said. “Both of us know Trivimi Laar, but I might be a lightning rod.” Oxby added, “I think you and I should be together when we meet Deryabin.”

Mike said, “Have them follow you through the gate and park over there next to Building 1. Go inside and ask for Sam Salzano. Sam expects you as well as the others. He can't let you drive onto the Field, but he'll get you past the gate at the far end of the building.” Mike pointed. “Sam will show you where the cars Deryabin ordered are parked. It's about a four-hundred-yard walk.”

Oxby got into Mike's car and they drove through the gate, parked, and went into the building. Mike didn't visit the Field regularly, but Sam Salzano knew him and the two chatted briefly. Then Mike waved for Oxby to follow him. They left the building through a back door. A gate directly ahead of them led onto the Field. The rain had lightened to a fine drizzle, the air still heavy and hot.

As he walked, Oxby took in the scene, impressed as Mike had predicted at the sight of row upon endless row of automobiles.

“Up ahead,” Mike said. “The cars with red streamers on the rear windows. Those are ours.”

Tobias recognized the car that was bringing Deryabin and Trivimi when it was a hundred yards away. It was the same car that had been driven by a beautiful blonde two days earlier. But no blonde was at the wheel this time. Five after four meant that Trivimi had negotiated the trip far better than he expected.

Tobias got from his car and walked to the driver's side window and leaned down to get his first look at Oleg Deryabin, who inclined his head and said nothing.

“Hello,” Tobias greeted Trivimi, without offering his hand. “You made good time.”

“Yes,” Trivimi said. “But is this a strange place to meet?”

“Not if you're in the automobile business. Isn't that why you're in New York?”

“But why are you here?” Trivimi asked. “Are you now in the automobile business?”

“I get mixed up in lots of different businesses,” Tobias said. “Occupational hazard.”

“I don't understand,” Trivimi said.

“Inside joke,” Tobias said. “Put the car over by that building. I'll meet you there.”

The rain had stopped, but in the heat, Tobias had taken off his seersucker jacket and was carrying it over his right arm so that it obscured the butt end of the pistol that protruded from his hip holster. It was a twenty-year-old Smith & Wesson that Tobias could use expertly. Trivimi and Deryabin stood by the car.

“Are you Mr. Deryabin?” Tobias asked.

Deryabin nodded, but Trivimi replied. “Oleg, this is Detective Tobias.”

That brief exchange constituted the introductions.

They went up the steps and into the building. Sam Salzano was waiting. He instructed them out to the Field.

“There's a ship just come in,” Salzano said. “You can't miss it. Go right for it and you'll find the others.”

They filed out, Tobias leading. There, a quarter of mile across the Field was the
Atlantic Companion
, one of the largest car freighters that could be moored in Port Newark.

Dead ahead of Tobias stood Oxby and Mike Carson.

“Are you ready for this?” Oxby said.

Mike nodded. “I hope he is.”

A hazy sun poked through and reheated the asphalt that had been briefly cooled by the rain. Tobias slowed and moved to the side. Deryabin was now in front. At fifty yards, Mike could see his face; his pink skin and thinning hair. At twenty yards he saw the red lines across his cheek. With each step, another of his features became clear until, when he was fifteen feet away, Mike saw the strange little smile that seemed, immediately, to be both ingratiating and indulgent. Deryabin's arm went out, his hand fully extended.

“Mikhail,” the deep voice rumbled out. “I am Oleg Deryabin.”

Mike ignored the hand and said, “I know you are. Those cars,” he pointed, “were ordered by your company. A deposit of seventy thousand dollars was paid to us.”

“Yes,” Deryabin replied, “that is right. And you will be paid the balance before they are put on one of those ships.”

Tobias had moved next to Oxby, who had taken a position ten feet from Mike. Trivimi stood beside Deryabin. Mike, alone, faced Deryabin. The five men seemed to have formed a triangle and they were all within a few strides of the Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles, and Pontiacs. To the other side of them was the stretch limousine and the pair of Hummers. And also the Jeep Cherokee that had just been delivered by the young man who was by now on his motorcycle and whizzing his way back to Ohio.

“They're not going anywhere,” Mike said.

“There is a problem with the cars?” Deryabin said.

Mike made a gesture toward Oxby. “Have you met Inspector Oxby?”

“What has he to do with our business?” Deryabin asked.

“With our business?” Mike repeated. “Nothing. It is my family.”

“He has told you lies, Mikhail.”

“Not lies, Deryabin, and the name is Mike. He told me everything that Sasha Akimov wanted to tell me, but couldn't before you had him killed. And my father who spoke the truth before he died. You killed him.”

“You can not believe the lies. You hear me? They all lied!” Deryabin screamed.

The rear door to the Cherokee opened and Galina stepped down. She took a step toward the group, the Semmerling raised.

“Galina,” Deryabin said, pointing at the Jeep. “I'm happy you are here, but how—” His voice trailed off.

“I am paid to know how.”

Oxby and Tobias faced her and each felt cautiously for their pistols. Mike could do nothing but stand rigid. Trivimi held up a hand as if to halt whatever Galina planned next.

“Don't get in the way, Estonian,” Galina said.

Deryabin said, “Put the gun down.”

Galina stared defiantly at him. Her lips parted, as if to speak. Instead, she squeezed the trigger and put a bullet precisely where she had aimed it. High in Deryabin's leg, inches from his groin.

“You bitch!” he shouted and sank to his knees. “Shoot that one,” he pointed at Oxby. “He killed your Viktor.”

“You always point the finger away from yourself. But no more can you do that. It was you. You killed Viktor!”

“Don't do it, Galina,” Oxby shouted. “Another killing won't solve anything.”

“Don't try to stop me,” she said, warning off Oxby with her pistol. Then she turned it on Deryabin and fired again, this time striking his other leg. He sprawled onto his stomach, writhing on the hot, wet pavement.